They just returned home from the funeral.

"Go inside," she says, "I want to be alone for a minute."

She sits on the porch steps. Lips pressed into a thin line as a few strands of curly, crimson hair fall from her messy bun. The wind blows them into her face. She looks out into the yard, but she's not there. She is trying to hold it back. She feels lost.

Alone.

The only person who truly understood her is gone now. No one would understand. No one will ever be able to comfort her.

She is back in the yard. She inhales, ready to bottle it up forever. But then the family dog comes trudging out of the house. His head is bowed, ears flat against his neck, tail lowered. He walks with a distraught gait.

He sits next to her. The two of them staring out in the yard with mutual silence. They are talking without speaking. Then after a moment he places his head on her shoulder.

She is crying.

She's sobbing. Trembling. Crumpling. She hates it. She hates it so much. He whimpers and she wraps her arms around him. She buries her face into his fur and allows him in.

The two are breaking together.